What the Goldfish Remembered

The goldfish — an unremarkable orange comet that Elena had won at a company picnic three years ago — swam its endless laps in the bowl on her desk. It had outlasted two rounds of layoffs and David's departure from the marketing team.

David, who'd become something more than a colleague during those late nights preparing Q3 presentations. David, who'd left behind a faded blue baseball cap on the coat rack by the door when he moved to Seattle for the promotion Elena had also been offered. She'd turned it down. Another life she didn't choose.

She'd meant to mail the hat back. She'd meant to stay in touch, too. But the emails had grown shorter, then sporadic, then ceased. The cap remained on the coat rack, gathering dust like a monument to her own cowardice.

Now, standing in her apartment amid half-packed boxes, Elena lifted the fishbowl. The goldfish darted, disturbed by the motion. "You're coming with me," she told it. "At least someone from that time is."

Her phone buzzed. David's name.

She answered, heart hammering.

"I'm in Chicago," he said. "For a conference. I was wondering —"

"The hat," she said. "I still have it."

Silence. Then: "I wasn't calling about the hat, El."

"No?"

"I was calling because I keep wondering what would have happened if I'd stayed. Or if you'd come with me."

The goldfish swam to the bowl's surface, mouth opening and closing in the terrible silence.

"I'm at the Drake," David said. "Room 412. If you wanted to —"

"I'm moving in two days."

"I know. Sarah mentioned it. She said you're finally leaving that apartment."

Sarah, their mutual friend who still worked in marketing. Sarah, who presumably told David everything.

"The baseball games," David said suddenly. "We never made it to that Cubs game we talked about."

"No," Elena said. "We didn't."

The goldfish turned, its tail catching light from the window, and Elena realized: some things simply kept swimming, lap after lap, while you made other arrangements.

"412," she said. "I'll be there in an hour."

After she hung up, she picked up David's cap from the coat rack. The fabric was soft, worn. She put it on her head.

The goldfish watched her from its bowl, indifferent, eternal. Some stories, Elena thought, don't end — they just circle back, like the fish in its glass world, waiting for someone to finally tap on the side of the tank.